


Marry Me

by williamastankova



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Almost Kiss, Arguing, First Kiss, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Resolved Sexual Tension, Seven Minutes In Heaven Game, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: As he becomes less and less Reggie Dwight and more Elton John, there's only one thing in his life that doesn't change.(aka Bernie has asked Elton to marry him multiple times in their lives, in all different sorts of ways and contexts. The last is his personal favourite)





	Marry Me

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: this is not made to insinuate anything about real life. I merely watched and enjoyed the film, and enjoyed the actors and characters together. This does not depict the real life people of Elton John and Bernie Taupin, nor their relationship!

It's late. Sometime after midnight, maybe even closer to six than twelve, and they're bumbling down the street as though it's as busy as it would be in the daytime, like it's not just them, drunk off their arses, chuckling and running and stumbling, falling and laughing even harder when they do. Reggie constantly feels like he's going to throw up, like the copious amount of alcohol they've consumed is all stuck in his throat, ready to come back up at any given moment. He swallows it and continues onward.

"Reg," Bernie calls to him, voice a whisper, pretending like he hadn't just crashed into a bin seconds before, "Hey, Reg, watch this-"

Reggie can only watch in delighted horror as his song-writer friend does a run-up and attempts to jump over a protruding wall, only to fail, crash and burn. He lands instead right on his crotch, and howls in accordance to the pain Reggie can only begin to imagine. He feels somewhat bad for laughing, but he can't help it; Bernie can't half be an idiot.

"You alright?" He offers his friend, who shoots him a pained smile and gives him a thumbs up with one hand, the other grasping the devastated area between his legs. Reggie shakes his head at him and they continue walking, much more slowly this time around.

They decide ultimately to go up to their favourite rooftop, mainly because it's pretty close and they really don't want to go back home yet. Their apartment is pretty much a no-go tonight, because Reggie's girlfriend is going to be there, and she rarely ever sleeps, and it seems like she's always ready, randy, and raring to go. Then again, to make the two of them have to retire to a night sleeping in the bunk bed in Reggie's childhood home is a thought Reggie can't even bare to think about, so he doesn't. Instead, he pushes the qualms to the back of his mind, following Bernie up to the rooftop and throwing himself onto the floor, feeling instantly relaxed.

"What am I going to do, Bernie?"

His question surprises even him, breaking into the morning's silence, and it makes Bernie look straight at him. He shakes his head, in a sense of 'what are you on about', and Reggie can only shrug, taking a moment to think before he speaks again.

"How'm I gonna tell her?" He grimaces, feeling guilty. "It'll break her heart."

"Well, mate, I don't know what to tell you," Bernie isn't sneering at his dilemma, but he is smiling a little, as though an idea has planted itself in his mind. "You can't spend your life living a lie, and it's best to tell her now than when you've been married for fifty years and have grand-kids and all that."

Reggie nods along solemnly, knowing his friend is right. Even so, he wishes he wasn't.

Bernie's smile cracks wider, making him look like a loony, and then he finally voices what had seemed to be so amusing to him. "Hey, Reg, I've got an idea."

"What is it?"

Even despite Reggie's defeated tone, Bernie seems to continue feeling pleased as he drops rather unexpectedly to one knee and stares at Reggie as though he's something beautiful - something to be admired. His blue eyes glisten as he looks at him, and Reggie feels his heart catch in his throat, mingling with the sick and alcohol still buried shallowly there.

"Marry me."

They stare at each other for a moment, neither saying anything, and they share a mutual moment that swells in bubbles around the pair of them. In sync, they think 'what in the world', and then as soon as the moment had come, it's gone, and the two of them have dissolved into fits of uncontained giggles. They laugh for so long that Reggie begins to hiccup, and he finds it rather difficult to speak when he tries to.

"Can't-" he manages, though he knows he doesn't really have to explain himself anyways, "Not legal, Bern."

That's all he can manage, and apparently it's enough, because his friend merely shrugs it off, figuring that's a good enough reason, and returns to blabbering about something else. Reggie, though, spends the time not listening, but rather watching Bernie closely. He finds he rather likes how his voice sounds, the bass and baritone and he doesn't know anything more official than that, but he's fascinated by the noises his friend makes, and how beautiful he looks when he really looks at him, really appreciates him.

What was happening?

**

They're back at his mum's. He'd finally worked up the courage to tell his girlfriend of his rather unfortunate case of homosexuality, after he'd realised that he was more in love with everybody around him than her. It wasn't her fault, obviously, but he knew if he'd stayed there for a second longer he'd have either been killed or had killed himself, and neither of those outcomes are especially desirable - at least not at this stage of his career.

So, as previously mentioned, he's moved back in with his mum, alongside Bernie. The two of them have set up a rather agreeable situation, with Bernie's writing and Reggie's composing. Everybody had said the same thing, and everybody had been beyond right: writing was just easier when you were in close proximity.

In the few weeks they'd been back, they'd hit on a few good tunes and had completed a few songs, but none of them felt like the _one_. That one, the single song they had been anticipating, the one that blew them away that they knew would be their breakout. And then, one seemingly average morning when Reggie came downstairs with little on and in this way appalled his mother and grandmother, it had all just clicked.

Bernie handed him a coffee-stained page, with words scrawled on it. He gave it a read-over as Bernie excused himself, then jumped atop his piano stool and got to work. The tune flew out of his fingers, as though it had been waiting there, anxious for the right time to come out, and the melodic sound filled the house. His mother and grandmother watched him, and a creak told him Bernie had come back downstairs and was watching him, too.

He didn't look at any of them for a while, as he tapped on the keys for the piece messily titled 'Your Song'. It was rather beautiful, and he found himself rather lost in the meaningful lyrics. He briefly wondered where the inspiration had come from, but lost most interest in this when he looked up at Bernie and caught his gaze, finding him already staring at him. He continued to play, to sing, to ignore everything in the world that wasn't the two of them and the masterpiece they had created together.

It felt real. Unlike so much in his life and career and anything and everything, this felt real. As he watched Bernie, Bernie watched him, and it felt like he finally understood. The song played over and over in his head, even though he was only playing it now for the very first time, which he took as a good sign. In Bernie's eyes, he could almost see... something. Not something he'd seen before, mind, but it felt almost like... well, almost like this song was written for him - not for business purposes, but actually _about_  him.

The tune gradually faded away, and he stopped presing down the keys. He gently released the pedal beneath his foot, letting the final sound die, then relishing in the applause that erupted from his mum and nan. He took their congratulations, then when they busied themselves in the kitchen, he swivelled to find Bernie still stood there, looking at him with a proud smile on his face, spread right across his handsome features.

"Loved it," he said calmly, as though writing hit-songs were an every day thing for him.

"So did I," Reggie let himself admit, throat a little hoarse from singing in the morning, though it wasn't as though he minded. "Where'd you get the lyrics from?"

"My head, as always, would you believe?" Bernie joked, then followed up with, "I got inspired, last night. Only managed to finish it this morning - glad I did, though."

Reggie nodded in agreement, then fiddled with his hands nervously as he asked, "Who's it for then? Haven't got another poor girl on the go, have you?"

Bernie shook his head, eyes widened, then cast a quick side-eye to the kitchen, finding Reggie's mum and nan rather occupied there, and so he deemed it safe enough to do what he had been pondering. As he had about a month ago now, he dropped suddenly to his knee, and looked Reggie dead in the eyes as he repeated the statement as seriously as he had the very first time, on the rooftop, though he hardly had drunkenness to blame it on now.

"Marry me."

Reggie can't help but instantly feel sick, and his eyes immediately go over to the kitchen, where he knows he's going to find him mum and nan still completely oblivious, but some anxious part of him thinks Bernie's just gone and done it - gone and outed him as a queer - and their lives are about to change forever. He's never moved so fast as he does when he jumps up and tugs Bernie to his feet, all but pushing him out of the room, not quite hurting him but making sure they move fast enough so things don't seem out of the ordinary to his family.

Once they're in the hallway, he gives Bernie a wide-eyed look, and shakes his head in disbelief. He hisses, voice an agitated whisper, "What was that?"

Bernie looks simultaneously like he might laugh and cry, though Reggie hopes it's former. He does neither, though, as he looks at Reggie like he doesn't quite understand, like he can't quite grasp what he means, and Reggie has to grab him by the face to get him to focus. It's more of an action of 'get a grip' than anything else, but the sudden change in the look on Bernie's face takes Reggie by surprise, and he can't bring himself to talk over what he thinks might be happening.

Bernie's eyes are quick, but Reggie doesn't miss how his friend glances down at his lips in a less than platonic manner. It's almost instantaneous, when the two of them begin to inch towards one another. He can't quite believe it's happening - or about to happen, anyway - but it is, because he can feel how Bernie's breath hits him, hot as it touches his face. He can't miss how his chest feels like it's closing up on him, giving up entirely on breathing, because if they're really about to touch, to kiss, to act like they're in love or whatever, there's no more reason for Reggie to keep breathing; this is all he's ever wanted.

But then, just as they're getting closer, close enough to actually touch, there's a sudden clattering from the kitchen, and his mother and grandmother are making a racket, and the moment's utterly, irrefutably gone. They clear their throats as his mum calls to them, asking them to come and help sort out the mess. Reggie resigns, thinking she'll never know what she's just interrupted - and neither will he.

**

An album. An actual album, with songs that people like, and it's sold out. He's never felt better, except now he's definitely as high as he can go, because he's literally high and drunk and he's done about everything he can without risking his life too much. He can't stop chuckling, giggling at everything anybody says, but he's far fron the only one.

Bernie's there, too. They're in America, after their first big play-through, and Bernie's never looked more relaxed in his life. He must realise it, too, how people love them, how they love his lyrics and their collaborative work. He's been smiling all night, even without all the booze and drugs and women, and that's probably why they're so chill when they're told it's there turn to go into the closet for seven minutes.

It's a game Reggie's never played before - never even really heard about, before America - so he doesn't actually know the rules. He doesn't know if you have to do anything, doesn't know how serious you can get with it, though he supposes it's whatever you can manage to do in seven minutes. The door shuts behind them, and he's prepared for them to spend the time giggling and pissing about, but as soon as the door closes Bernie's all up close and personal, pressing himself against Reggie, who couldn't ever dream of complaining.

He hasn't kissed him, at least not yet. He's taking his time, ghosting his fingers all around Reggie's body, resting them on his face and running them down his throat. He can barely swallow, and he's suddenly taken back to them being in his mum's house. He feels as though at any time he might just wake up, or something will go drastically wrong and they're going to have to leave without ever knowing what might have been, but then suddenly Bernie's kissing him, and he's melting away.

He falls soft, pliant, under Bernie's gentle touch. It's clear who's leading the kiss, and it's apparently immediately that Reggie doesn't mind Bernie taking the lead. It's good enough for him that they're kissing, even if it is drunken and something they probably won't talk about in the morning. He let it start slowly, but then he's got his arms around Bernie's frame and his fingers are digging into his friend's shoulder blades, imploring - begging - him to give him whatever he's got to give.

Reggie tries not to think about feelings in the moment, but when the thought crosses his mind for a second, he finds himself smiling. It becomes so hard to contain himself that Bernie has to pull back, unable to kiss his tight-lipped, grinning lips, though he doesn't seem frustrated. Reggie can't see him in the dark of the closet, but he's known him long enough to know when he's being icy, and judging by the fact that they're still flush against each other's chest, he's pretty sure it's safe to assume Bernie's at the very least content. He inhales, ready to speak, but Bernie beats him to it at the last second.

"Marry me, Reg," he proposes yet again, and Reggie can only scoff, feeling as though this ruins the moment entirely, even though it would usually be seen as a romantic gesture - arguably the most romantic of all.

"Get lost," he says, pressing his hands to Bernie's chest, pushing him off and shaking his head at himself. How could he have been so foolish? He's given himself up entirely, and for what? For this?

He doesn't normally consider himself to be a drama queen, but right now he can't exactly help it. He feels like a total idiot, and he can't stand to be in that confined space with Bernie for a second longer. He twists the doorknob, grateful to find it unlocked, and ignores the host's protests when he barges out of the cupboard several minutes before the game enables him to. He couldn't care less, if he's honest.

He finds himself somewhere, he thinks it's the front yard but he can't quite be sure, because he's never been here before. It's got a patio, and there's a porch and - yes, in the sky, just there, he can see the moon - these are usually great indicators of the back or front gardens. He shakes his head and finds a seat somewhere, throwing his head into his hands, prepared to sob, though no tears breach his eyes.

There's a silent few moments where the only noise comes from the groups around him that chat slowly, all undoubtedly drunk off their tits, too. Then, from seemingly nowhere, there's a sudden pressure beside him, and it feels unmistakably like somebody has sat right beside him. There's no doubt in his mind who it is.

He uncovers his eyes reluctantly and looks to his left, where he finds Bernie, as anticipated. He's calmly watching Reggie, who isn't sure whether he wants to jump on him again and kiss him to death or get up and start running, never to turn back. He decides that neither form an appropriate reaction, so instead he waits patiently for Bernie to speak; he thinks he's sacrificed quite enough for the two of them, at least that night. This time it isn't his job to fix things between them.

"Sorry," the apology comes rather quickly, at least more quickly than he had expected it to. Bernie looks at him sincerely, his long hair blown only slightly by a serene breeze, "I didn't mean you to get upset, Reg."

"Yeah," is Reggie's only response, because really, what else can he say? He's hardly going to apologise - he's far too stubborn for that, and it's hardly like it's his fault anyway.

"And I don't know if there's anything you want to talk about," Bernie offers him, sounding like the voice of reason in any and every difficult situation - like his constant conscience, which he just might be. He continues, "But I'm always here for you. You know that, right? We're best mates."

 _Yeah,_  Reggie scoffs in his head, and it takes all of his might not to shake his head and roll his eyes, _Best mates that just made out against a door in a cupboard_.

"Alright," is what he really says, twiddling his thumbs like he's got somewhere - anywhere - else to be. "Yeah, alright."

Bernie's hand lands firmly on the centre of his back, almost winding him and taking him completely by surprise. He's even more shocked when he lets himself slowly fall to rest on Bernie's chest, but he feels almost wholly soothed when the man's hands come to rest in his hair, running small circles with each finger and thumb, lulling him into a deep, peaceful sleep. It's platonic this time, no dodgy business; Bernie's just his friend, trying his best to comfort him.

For a moment, it's almost like nothing's happened, but he can hardly imagine things will go so quickly back to normal after an event like that - after a kiss as passionate as that. He sighs, giving into the urge to obey his tiredness just this once, swearing he'll deal with it tomorrow.

**

He's not Reggie, for fuck's sake. Nowadays, that name's dead and gone, left behind with his old, shy self. He's Elton John, and he lives to make a scene and give an unforgettably good show. It doesn't matter if he gets his stomach pumped, or if he does drugs, or if his boyfriend is a cunt and a half, because he's not a _real person_. It doesn't matter to anybody else, and so it doesn't matter to him. He lives to perform, he doesn't perform to live.

He can't remember the last time he did coke, but he does it again for good measure. It always gives him the confidence to perform a show to its proper capability, gives him the blackness he needs to forget who he is and how stupid he looks in whatever outfit has been lain out for him that day or night. He doesn't really care what he's wearing, and he's not allowed to change anyway, so he resigns, puts on his feathery-chicken-peacock-rainbow outfit and sucks up all his cares, making himself his usual vacuum as he hurriedly exits his dressing room.

As he approaches the door to go on stage, he's stopped by a familiar figure standing in his way. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and prepares himself to curse out Bernie, or otherwise tell him to get the fuck out of his way. He's not going to be treated like a second-class citizen, especially not now, and not ever, if he has a say in the matter.

"Reg-" Bernie calls to him, and he's almost tempted not to stop, because who even _is_  that anymore? Reg? He isn't Reginald Dwight anymore, no matter how much Bernie insists he is. "You don't have to go out there. Please."

Elton swivels around to face him, eyes teaming rage and annoyance. He waves his hands about, emphasising his point, making Bernie seem like an imbecile. "If I can survive an overdose and play at Dodger Stadium a day later, who the _fuck_  do you think you are to tell me what I can and can't do?"

Bernie doesn't become enraged as Elton had anticipated. His eyes seem to melt back into his skull, what with how sorrowful they become. Elton loathes the pity he sees there, and it makes him want to lash out more, though he suspects the show might not go on if he gets into a full-on brawl with Bernie then and there; the man is stronger than most people give him credit for.

"A friend," Bernie says plainly, "I'm your friend."

"Friend," Elton scoffs, swinging his body around dramatically, then facing Bernie again, "I haven't got any friends. Nobody cares about me. You're only here because you've got nowhere else to go. Ex-wife took the house, did she? Oh, boohoo. Cry me a river, Bernie."

"Reg-"

Elton doesn't stand there for a moment longer. He pushes violently past Bernie, who's still trying to stop him getting past and onto stage, and he's got his hand on the door and he's ready to pull when he's suddenly hit by a wave of guilt. He casts his eye back and drop the hand on the handle, taking a few steps back so that he's nearer to Bernie once more. He sucks in a sharp breath, finding breathing rather difficult, and it's not just because of his ridiculous suit.

"I'm sorry," he finds Bernie's arm, resting his hand there reassuringly, trying to pour his emotions through to his friend through it, "I didn't mean that."

"I know."

Then, without any more words exchanged, Elton's leaving again, his pace picking up with every step he takes, towards the stage and onto it. He's deafened by a roar of cheers of the people that don't really know him - that don't give one flying fuck about who he really is - and he loses himself in performing for them, and only them.

**

He can't remember the last time he was completely sober. Everywhere he goes, somebody somewhere offers him some form of drug, and he can never bring himself to decline. It's always at least alcohol, but more than often not it's crack. It seems like his dirty little secret has become public knowledge and instead of trying to help get him off of it, the mainstream society has decided they want to become his mutual supplier. How can an addict say no?

They're on his jet. If he's honest (which he hardly ever tries to be), he doesn't know where they're off next. He doesn't even know where he played, or when he played. He's sure it's safe to guess that he's played somewhere, because that's all people ever want him for lately; his definition of 'lately' is the past decade of his life.

The only person he can see is Bernie. There's some attendants, and John is probably lurking somewhere or other, but he's not there. He never is.

"Reg," Bernie still refuses to acknowledge him as he wishes to be called, as everybody else calls him. The man's voice is worn, tired and drained of all life, and he continues a conversation Elton can barely even recall starting. "Come with me, Reg. It'll do us good. I don't want to lose you - not like this."

Elton waves his hand at his friend, and he begins to loosely chuckle, losing his sense of reality and clear vision rapidly. "You... you should go, Bernie. You're right. It'll do you good."

Bernie's eyes soften, as they so often do nowadays whenever he looks at him. "Reg, come with me. I want you to come. I won't get better unless you're there, and I'm afraid I might die already. Look at us. What are we?"

"Rockstars, Bernie," Elton repeats it like he's been trained to, and he can't say for certain that he hasn't. "Why do you want me there? God, you're not going to ask me to marry you again, are you?"

Bernie's mouth becomes a straight line as he stills it, looking as though he's fighting back tears. He shakes his head, determined, and speaks again. "No. I want you to get better, Reg. I can't stand seeing you like this; you're my best mate, and you're going to end up killing yourself."

"Tried it, apparently it's not for me." Elton's joke isn't appreciated, earning only a stern look, and he decides not to try that one again.

He thinks about it for a second, under the pressure of Bernie's hot gaze. His friend seems genuinely concerned for him, though he can hardly think much of that at the moment. He was gullible enough to believe John cared about him, and the fans. Look where that misplaced faith had gotten him: high as a pouring cloud, wasted on his plane, wanting nothing more than for his heart to stop beating at any and every given moment.

His head nods, slowly at first. He's not sure why he does it - he knows he's going to upset a lot of people by disappearing for ages - but something about Bernie is making him want to get better. Maybe it's because Bernie's been there since the very beginning, his drunken mind reasons, and even before that. He's one of the wings that make him fly, sky-high, and if he hasn't got him, who exactly does he have? Nobody that he can trust.

The plan is in place. He's set to join Bernie to get healthy, to regain self-love, whatever that means. He thinks there's a high probability it won't work (he's never been susceptible to therapy) but at least he's willing to try with Bernie by his side, like he's been there all along, and he'll always be there.

**

He's never felt so much in his life.

They're on a break from the industry, and it's something that inspired their relationship to flourish. After rehab, the pair of them decided they needed a little more time, so they returned to one of Bernie's reclusive ranches, in favour of a bit of peace and quiet. There, they found, felt like home to the two of them. They were never made for a prolonged stay in the bustling venues and blaring clubs of American cities; they need isolation, and to be together.

It was this epiphany that made Elton do it. One day, as they're making breakfast (or, rather, correction, Bernie is making breakfast, because Elton hasn't had to make his own food for a very long time, and he can barely make an egg without cremating it). He's watching a sleepy-looking Bernie dance around the kitchen, having regained all of the energy fame sucked out of him, and he can't stop himself.

He waits until Bernie's stationary, smiling quietly to himself as he waits for the toast to pop back up, and then he's got his hand suddenly, firmly planted on the centre of his chest, so that he can feel his heartbeat as it speeds up. Then, without a single word exchanged, he's kissing Bernie, and it feels like fire.

It's not a dare. It's not part of some stupid, juvenile game. They're far too old for those sorts of things now, and so it's _real_. Oh, God, it's real, he's actually doing this, and Bernie's actually starting to kiss him back, which he honestly never even thought could happen, but now that it is he's beginning to feel as nervous as a schoolgirl around her first crush-

Before his mind implodes (or explodes, both are equally possible in that moment), he shuts it off. They move together, kiss, press their chests flush against the other man's, and let themselves delve deeper into this forbidden sin they've both secretly longed to commit for so long.

It's like this for months afterwards, too, to Elton's utmost pleasure. They've begun sleeping together, and it's nothing like how things with John were. Bernie isn't all take and no give - he's actually closer to the opposite. Sometimes Elton has to tell him to lie back and let himself be taken care of, because the man doesn't stop lathering him with kisses, down his neck and across his face and _everywhere_. Bernie is exactly what Elton's been looking for all along, but he'd never expected to find it standing right beside him.

They're lying together one evening, Elton's head rested on Bernie's chest, dreaming and thinking about nothing at all, when Bernie pipes up. He can't help how his mind races, and it seems to Elton at least that the words come out of his mouth even before he permits them to do so.

"Marry me," the familiar phrase falls from his lips, cascading like a waterfall onto the top of Elton's head. When Elton looks up at him, he instantly seems regretful, and begins to splutter, "No, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

The grip around Elton's shoulders tightens, like it has to, like he's going to run away or something. He can't blame Bernie for thinking that, but it's not what he wants to do - not in the slightest. He merely smiles, burrowing himself into Bernie's neck, shifting a little higher under the covers, and he nods.

There's nothing he'd rather do. He's spent far too long denying this, telling Bernie that they can't, or pretending like he doesn't want to, but he's sick of running. He can't keep on hiding forever, and now's a better time than any to be real and honest. He wants everybody to know about them, even if not everybody will be supportive, because he's proud. He's proud of how much they've been through, what they've seen, what they've done. In his mind, there's nothing wrong with this gentle curse he's had delivered upon him by an invisible incantation.

He loves Bernie more than he's ever loved any of his girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, any of it. They haven't been _together_  for very long, but they've been with each other for years now, and it's high time they get what they've so desperately and so ashamedly been seeking. He grins as his cheek rests against Bernie's hot chest, and nods once more.

"Yeah," he realises the law, the time, but decides that's not going to stop them forever. "Yeah, okay. One day, some day soon."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feel free to leave a comment to let me know what you think :)
> 
> I love this ship so so much


End file.
